Romanov(28)

Papa prayed over every piece before serving out equal portions.

This became a daily occurrence, and I was so thankful to the sisters that I wrote them a lengthy letter of gratitude. I stood by the door to the landing for several minutes, not yet ringing the bell. Would Avdeev give them my letter? It was hard to imagine he would. Not much would be lost if he didn’t, but it was worth a try. My encouragement could not be quelled today.

I pulled the bell cord. The door opened and I found myself face-to-face with Zash. “Oh!” I stepped back, my stomach performing a clumsy pirouette. “Hello.”

“Dobroye dyen,” he replied. Good day.

I was so cheerful now with several days of proper nutrients pumping through my body that I practically beamed at him. “I have a letter for the sisters.”

Something changed on his face—not a smile, specifically, but a layer of warmth. “They have been very generous.”

I was sure he appreciated the siphoned goods as much as we did since Avdeev claimed his soldiers needed the sustenance as well.

“We are so grateful.” I thought of how many of these soldiers were in their roles because they needed the rubles. How they were all crammed in the basement floors of the Ipatiev House—far stuffier than our five rooms. Even though we were under a prison regime, we likely still looked pampered to them.

I reached out and touched Zash’s arm. “Thank you for serving our beautiful country of Russia. I know our positions might have labeled us as enemies, but I am as grateful for your loyalty as I am for the sisters’ generosity.”

The warmth fled from his face and he schooled his features into indifference once more, but I understood. Compliments were more difficult to swallow than the dry black bread we chewed every breakfast.

I remembered one of the verses Papa read us from the Bibliya—that a kind word turns away wrath. I wasn’t very good at it, but when I did manage to squeak out a compliment or kindness, I always saw Papa’s words in action.

In this moment I wished Zash to hear my sincerity and to know that I did not begrudge him for having to enact Avdeev’s orders.

I knocked on Avdeev’s office door, Zash at my side—standing guard as I tried to find his commandant. The door was locked. I knocked again and a grunt came from inside.

Zash turned me away and held out his hand. “I will give him the letter when he . . . when he is available.” Meaning when Avdeev wasn’t drunk.

“Thank you.” I passed Zash the letter and turned to go back into our prison, but Zash’s low mutter made me pause.

“Some items were recently brought into the commandant’s office from a city raid. Perhaps . . . perhaps you should try searching again. To help your brother.”

I stood, mouth agape, with my hand hovering over the door handle. Did he mean . . . Avdeev had spell ink?

“Maybe tomorrow,” Zash finished, still not meeting my eyes. Then, in a louder voice, he said, “Now return to your quarters, Citizen.”

I obeyed, not sure what I’d just heard. Not sure I believed those words came from Zash’s mouth. And then suddenly giddy that they had. Papa was right—holding on to hope would always lead to surprises.

The next day I had the fidgets. Twisting my fingers. Twisting my napkin. Flipping book edges with my thumb if only to hear the thrick of pages. Wrestling with Joy until she was too tuckered to even lick my face.

Finally, the time came.

Ivan and Zash escorted our family into the garden and I took up the rear. Zash gave no signal, no assurance, but I’d heard the commandant’s voice from outside, which meant his office was empty.

Like a shadow I slipped inside and cracked the door behind me. His office looked pretty much the same as the last time, only now it was filled with twice as many empty vodka bottles. I wasn’t sure where to search. No new crates. No new barrels or boxes.

But then, as I scanned the messy shelves, I saw it.

A round wooden container with silver painting and a tiny stopper that made me think it held perfume. Zash’s spell ink.

Avdeev hadn’t collected any raid items. He probably didn’t know about any of this. Zash . . . Zash had put his bottle of spell ink in here for me. For Alexei.

With my throat growing thick, I grabbed the bottle and slipped out of the office a mere two minutes after entering. And I wanted to cry. Because this kindness—Zash’s kindness—undid me.

I could never thank him properly. He didn’t realize I knew this was his bottle of spell ink. He didn’t realize I knew he had risked his own neck by sneaking it into Avdeev’s office for me. Why? Why would he do this?

Perhaps this was some sort of cruel setup. But with our raw-hearted frustrations and communication, it couldn’t be. Zash had said the one thing we had in common was a willingness to do anything to help a loved one.

He’d seen Alexei’s pain, and the sorrow it caused the rest of us. And even though we were captives under the guard of his gun, he still had compassion. He showed that to me today. And I adored him for it.





9


I painted the spell ink directly onto Alexei’s knee. The rest of our family was finishing up supper in the dining room. This was the only spell I knew, so I made quick work of it. Alexei kept an eye on the door, holding as still as he could.

As I painted the word onto Alexei’s pale skin, I hummed the small tune Rasputin had taught me and focused all my thoughts on the word for the relief spell. Fresh spells came from the right word paired with the right focus and the right music. Part of me considered trying for a new word—something that wouldn’t just relieve some of the pain but would resolve the problem—but I wouldn’t even know where to start.